


Burn

by lisagemeni, orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Intense, Obsession, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:58:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisagemeni/pseuds/lisagemeni, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of events taking place immediately after the end of Series 3. Moriarty plans an onslaught of attacks on Sherlock's personal life, in an attempt to finish what he started. Can Sherlock and John withstand the flames that surround them or will Moriarty finally succeed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

Sherlock stepped off the plane, and the familiar sting of the cold air pushed against him. His heart was pounding in his head, sweat had slowly started to collect on the palm of his hands, yet he had not managed to deduce why his body was acting this way.

 " _Sentiment_." He thought, as the very first thing Sherlock wanted to see was John's actual face staring back at his own. 

 Would John be happy? Would John be upset? After all, their last reunion didn't go as well as Sherlock had hoped. 

  
Walking quickly towards the group, Sherlock tried to dismiss the sinking feeling of their eyes penetrating onto his figure. Sherlock's heart sank. 

 Sherlock was supposed to become a hero again. He was going to die with honor for a somewhat good cause, and hopefully wash away any ill feelings John had for him, now that he had killed Magnussen. 

 But now that destiny was ripped away from him, by the only person who was powerful enough to do such a thing:

 "Moriarty." Sherlock muttered, the very first words he said to the group.

 "How?" John spoke, voice barely above a whisper. On the surface, it would seem his words were merely directed to the circumstances of Moriarty's return. But an educated observer would know their meaning extended far beyond the obvious. As it was, Sherlock had once again been returned to him as he'd begun to face the fear of a life without Sherlock. Granted, it was much shorter than two years, as prior. Still, he couldn't help but think there may be something to it all. It could not be coincidence, as Sherlock himself taught John to believe such. Perhaps, he thought, he and Sherlock were destined for something. A lifelong partnership, one of solving crimes and blogging, conceivably. But something. 

"Yes..." Mycroft spoke, interrupting John's thoughts. "How, indeed..." he said, casting a brief glance in Mary's direction. One might even say suspiciously so.

 Mary rolled her eyes at Mycroft's accusatory glances and ignored John's doe-eyed look at Sherlock. As much as it pained her to see her husband be in love with someone else, it pained her more to hear of Moriarty's sudden and shocking return....

 This was too soon. This wasn't the plan. The plan was to wedge a gap between Sherlock's and John's relationship. What better way than to force Sherlock to be exiled, never to return again? Hell, even if Sherlock had returned at some point, it could have been at least a few months, causing both Sherlock and John to suffer because they would have been apart. But, no... Mary knew sentiment got the better or Moriarty because he couldn't stand to see his previous consulting detective fly away to his certain doom. 

 "But how? How is he alive? It doesn't make much sense." Mary put on her best impression of fear. "You said he killed himself... If he really didn't, how could  _you_  have missed that?" Really, she shouldn't have been surprised. Sherlock had missed every obvious hint about her true nature. 

 Sherlock kept his glance fixed on John, underestimating how incredible it would actually feel to have his presence within mere feet away from him. 

 He should be used to being away from John by now. Two years was certainly a considerable amount of time, and then after John and Mary consummated their love, Sherlock had to fill the time with a wonderful excuse to get high and distract himself with someone,  _anyone_ , to help pass the hours. 

 Sherlock had never  _needed_  anyone before. When he was away at University, the summertime was always a dreadful thought because he had to return to his family, return to the snide remarks from Mycroft, or the condescending tone from his mother.

 How ironic is it that when Sherlock finally  _needed_  someone, John always somehow seemed to slip away so easily?

 Not this time. Fate seemed to bring them together once more, and Sherlock silently vowed that it would be the last time. Quickly wiping away any moisture from his eyes that had matured from his brief exile and quietly blaming it on the wind, Sherlock finally took his eyes off of John's beautiful frame and locked eyes with Mary. 

 "Well, it seems like sentiment had gotten the better of me... I, I was mistaken..." Sherlock started feeling regret fill up his stomach, but there was another emotion he wasn't counting on: complete and utter excitement.

 "Is there any way we can trace the original point of the signal? Where is he broadcasting from?" Sherlock looked intensely at his brother, already becoming way too impatient.

 "Possibly, though he may have taken precautions against such tracking. Still, if it's possible, that will take some time." Mycroft replied. "Once we locate the source of the broadcast he- or whoever is responsible will most certainly be long gone." he continued. 

"So then what do we do? Just wait? This is Moriarty we're talking about." John said, stepping towards Mycroft. John's tone was full of anxiety, and it made Mycroft mentally cringe. 

"Exactly." Mycroft spoke, merely lowering his eyes to look at John. "If this is Moriarty, he will show himself. He can't stand performing without an audience." Mycroft took a cautionary look at Sherlock. "Most criminals don't." he said, this time deliberately avoiding looking in Mary's direction. 

 

As the three of them bickered, Mary began to grow more and more impatient. It was increasingly annoying that John was so worked up about Moriarty's apparent return. It was obvious he only cared because it jeopardized Sherlock's safety. Perhaps Moriarty even... made John jealous? Mycroft was as worried as she had ever seen him, which admittedly, wasn't much. And Sherlock... well, Sherlock was excited. Brimming at the edges with uncontainable joy at the prospect that his great rival had returned. Watching them all, it was painfully nauseating. 

 "Well, if we have to wait, there isn't much use waiting around here." Mary began to walk towards the direction of the cab that was to take them home, but then visibly stopped in her tracks. "Oh, um..." She turned her face around, cringing as she did, "I'm glad you're back, Sherlock. We all are." A fake smile with genuine affection in her eyes. That was Mary's specialty.

 As much as Sherlock knew Mary was right, he would never admit it to himself. Sherlock did realize, however, that she had a point. Wherever Moriarty was, standing next to the plane that was to send him to his death would not help in their venture of finding him. Staring at Mary, Sherlock gave a half smile. "Thank you, Mary. It seems I am not done yet. England  _needs_  me, as Mycroft dramatically loves to put it." 

 Turning towards the cab to leave, there was a small ache in his chest that he did not expect. If they couldn't trace Moriarty's signal, then where would they go next? Would John and Mary return to their flat and carry on in bliss? Would Sherlock return to 221B, alone? 

 Being away from John at this moment was a feat Sherlock was not ready for, so he stated hurriedly, "John. Mary. You must join me at 221B immediately to think about what our next move is. And Mycroft... Go do...  _whatever_  is you do. But do something." 

 

Giving one last condescending look at Mycroft, Sherlock opened the cab door, motioning Mary inside. When Mary was seated inside, John passed in front of Sherlock to enter. Sherlock's hair stood on end, being that close to John, even for a second. Goosebumps appeared on his skin as John's hand accidentally brushed against him, and Sherlock tried to ignore the heavy beating of his heart.

 Pretending his feelings of exaltation never occurred, Sherlock took a seat next to John in the cab, which made for an awkward scenario. 

 He then leaned his head out of the cab window, and as they rode away, Sherlock exclaimed "Latas!" to Mycroft's shrinking figure.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft sat across from Greg Lestrade, looking around the detective inspector's office. "Well judging by the looks of this office, you should have plenty of time to focus on this most important issue." Mycroft said. "It goes without saying that you'll need to use all of your resources to their fullest extent. Otherwise you will surely fail."

 Lestrade sat at his desk, quietly processing Mycroft's words. He began to mindlessly twist the wedding band on his finger, as he tried to formulate his response. The sound of Mycroft's fingers tapping on the armrest of the chair opposite did not help. But words slowly began to give form to sentences and finally the sentences became a comprehensible thought. What Mycroft wanted was what Lestrade himself wanted- to finally be rid of Moriarty. But what he was asking for seemed nearly impossible. "You do realise that in all the time I have worked with Sherlock... that..." he trailed off. "Well that's just never happened. Surely you understand that we consult with Sherlock because WE need Sherlock. And now..." Lestrade continued.

"Yes, and now I am asking you to do the impossible." Mycroft interrupted. He'd long ago lost his patience with Lestrade's rambling. Choosing that moment to make his exit, he rose from his seat. "Simple thing, really." he said, walking towards the office door. He turned to give Lestrade one final look. "Solve this case before Sherlock Holmes does."  

* * *

 

 John paced around the perimeter of the 221B sitting area. Neither Sherlock nor Mary had spoken in the cab, though John himself was bursting at the seams with questions. It was definitely unlike Sherlock to keep silent at a time like this. And Mary's odd behaviour hadn't escaped notice. But John couldn't figure out what he was missing. Finally he heard what sounded like Mary clearing her throat, and could only hope this meant she had something to say.

"Well..." Mary rested her hands on her thighs before getting up as quickly as she could manage, "I'll let you boys get to it." She was halfway through the door before she gave Sherlock and then John a curiously downcast look. "I'd... love to join, but I'm feeling... a bit worn out, what with the baby and all. You two go on ahead. Find this, um... Moriarty and save England. Save the world, yeah?" She gave a thumbs up and a cheery smile before slowly walking down the stairs, rolling her eyes sarcastically. There was no way in hell that they'd defeat Moriarty. No possible way.

Because they'd have to get through her to do it.

 

Sherlock desperately tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair, his eyes following Mary's footsteps down the stairs. 

 " _Find this Moriarty and save England_ " was ringing through Sherlock's ears, and it made Sherlock physically roll his eyes with exasperation. Mary made it sound entirely easy, as if Moriarty was another bland, ordinary case that Sherlock and John could easily withstand. 

 Sherlock was annoyed at the fact that Mary was so ignorant about it. How could she not know about the most brilliant mind in all of England? 

 

" _But, of course_." Sherlock thought. Mary wasn't there for any of Moriarty's wonderful cases. She wasn't there when the man himself fooled Sherlock and John into thinking Jim from the I.T. department was a useless, pathetic boyfriend, simply wanting to meet the man Molly had talked so passionately about. Mary had not witnessed his brilliant reveal, leaving Sherlock completely stopped in his tracks, yet more excited than he's ever been, while deadly snipers we're circling around them...

 Sherlock was taken out of his daydream by what seemed like John clearing his throat, and already deduced that John was going to complain about Sherlock doing "that thing again" where he supposedly ignores everything and is completely in his own thoughts.

 "Right then. So what now?" John asked. He turned away from the now empty door way to face Sherlock. Part of him felt an obligation to see Mary home. But oddly he was glued to his spot watching her walk out the door. He didn't speak and didn't say goodbye. Only waited. Something had to be going on in Sherlock's mind. Something always was. Whether or not he truly wanted to hear it was also a completely different thing. Still, he found himself now watching Sherlock. Again waiting. Because there would surely be a sign of that twisted smirk at any moment. The one he bore at the very mention of the name Moriarty. 

"Well, come on. What are you plotting? Because somehow I know it's something. So what is it? Everyone else is scared but you- you are certainly lost in thought about this "game" the two of you play? Right? Is that not why you can hardly speak more than a single word to anyone? The great and mystical Moriarty has just reappeared to not only save you from your demise BUT also start this GAME all over again. So surely you've got something going on up there. So what is it? Hmmm? What's the great Sherlock Holmes got turning his brain?" John asked. Finally exhausted with waiting, he walked over and flopped into his chair.

 Sherlock looked a little shocked at John's random, but honest outburst. 

 "I'm... sorry?" Sherlock didn't know how to feel. What to think. It had been nothing but a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions ever since Mycroft mentioned Moriarty's return.  

 

" _Moriarty_." 

 

For two and a half years, nothing excited Sherlock anymore. Even tearing down Moriarty's network inch by inch proved nothing more than a bore compared to Moriarty and Sherlock's final moments  _together_. Sherlock and Moriarty staring at each other dead in the face, their breath on each other's faces, their hearts pounding together in time, them both feeling above everyone and everything else... And to seal the deal, the touch of Moriarty's hand in his own... 

 The case that brought Sherlock back into John's life, the photographer who wanted Sholto dead, Magnuessen... While all of those cases made Sherlock intrigued, confused, and feel helpless, none of those compared to the  _excitement_  Moriarty always brought. Sherlock indefinitely knew that he would never feel that away ever again, so he decided to focus solely on his inner feelings... 

 He focused more on the way John made him feel, on the people who had affected him in some way. Stealing away into his mind palace was his defense mechanism during the two years he was gone. His mind would wander to past times, past conversations, new conversations that he wished he could have. People close to him continuously popped in and out, making appearances that would either ease his pain, or make him even more useless than ever.

 But here was John, right in front of him. Here was John in 221B, saying everything Sherlock was afraid to admit. Here was John and Sherlock... alone. But what surprised Sherlock even more was the anger that was bursting from John. Was John, dare he say it...  _jealous_? Jealous of how Moriarty made Sherlock feel?

 Quickly brushing that thought away, Sherlock snapped back into reality, and said, "I don't understand why you're so upset, John. I'm merely thinking of all the possible reasons why Moriarty is back, and all the places he could possibly be. Why does it bother you?"

 John looked over at the man he considered his best friend. For a brief moment he could see genuine confusion written into Sherlock's expression. It was hardly recognisable as Sherlock never seemed much affected by the feelings of others. "Bother me? No."  John scratched his head. "Shouldn't you be, I don't know..." he sighed. "Doing something? Out there?" he motioned toward the window. "As I recall, you've an international reputation to uphold."

"John, do you really think I'd be that obvious? All of London is expecting me out on the streets, the least I can do is go against what their idiotic brains want, and stay inside." Sherlock said with a smile that only he could give John.

 

Something about John being so concerned about Sherlock's reputation sparked something within him, and it made Sherlock feel like it was the old days. Before Mary arrived and took the place Sherlock only ever dreamed of being.

 With a quick, unexpected jolt, Sherlock stood from his chair, and strolled towards the kitchen, only to make a quick turn back towards John's direction. 

 "Alright, what do we know? What are the  _facts_? Two and a half years ago, Moriarty wanted to ruin my reputation, and then he committed suicide on the rooftop at St. Bart's, a location I had chosen. And now, it just so happens that he resurfaces, just as I was about to be sentenced to my de-... to my exile?" Sherlock was careful not to worry John anymore then he had to at the moment. 

 "Well we know he wants you dead. Except he's saved you from... it." John turned his head toward the kitchen where Sherlock was standing.  "And we know he's sent a message to the whole city, so he's likely to strike massively. Also after his 'demise' your name was cleared and his was justly tarnished. Therefore likely he'll target any media and journalist that reported on your 'death' and his Richard Brook fiasco?" John added. He could feel himself beginning to reflect on the two years where 'not dead' meant very much dead in his world. Two years that Sherlock occupied himself with Moriarty and a determination to tear down a network. But the same two years that John spent daily mourning, missing a man he thought he'd never see again. He had somewhat moved past it, of course. But it was unexpected moments like these that made it hard to forget.

"Right... Exactly... Good John, I'm impressed." Sherlock noticed the abrupt sadness that littered John's eyes, so he tried saying a compliment that was well deserved. Sherlock was surprised that John picked up on the fact that Sherlock was practically being sentenced to death. He was glad he didn't have to be the one to tell him that after the 6 month mission, he wouldn't have come back, that he would never stare into John's eyes again...

 But what John didn't know was that Moriarty technically saved Sherlock twice in a span of a few months. Moriarty lived in the darkest recesses of Sherlock's mind, and he was the one that made Sherlock remember that John was what Sherlock lived for... But Sherlock was going to make sure he kept that particular detail hidden for now. 

 

"So, Moriarty is likely to make a massive strike, possibly harming a large group of people in the process... Or would he? It's a bit obvious for him, isn't it? As much as he loves an audience, I'm surprised he made himself seen to all of London at all.  _What_  is he up to...?" Sherlock let the thought trail off, excitement dripping from his words.

 "Mycroft is supposedly trying to track his location, but I propose we do it first. Besides, I always love beating him in any way possible. But where to? Where would Moriarty be hiding, so to speak...?"

 

* * *

 

He couldn't stop smiling. 

 

Some might consider James Moriarty a sociopath, a psychopath, a truly inhuman machine that was only designed to flirt with chaos and death and nothing else mattered but blood and money. At his worst, his clients had muttered things like "freak" or "psycho", "you have no empathy" and then he would have them killed, of course. But... they couldn't be more wrong.

 The only thing that held any significance for him was Sherlock.

 He had kept a close eye on the detective the past three years, courtesy of his delicious older brother filling Moriarty in on his every move. Sherlock was made to think that he was dismantling his entire network. Sherlock was made to think that Moriarty was, in fact, dead. Moriarty was pulling the strings in this puppet show and Mycroft had made a most willing participant. 

 So, it was no surprise that when Mycroft needed James Moriarty in his darkest, most desperate hour, it was only right to repay him for all of the stalking he had done. And, after all, Moriarty had to be the one to kill Sherlock someday. He would never leave it to some random terrorist in a dark, secluded jungle or a sniper in the dead of night. 

 As the "Did you miss me?" video kept replaying on his television screen in the living room of his private flat, an unbridled sense of joy swept through him. Sherlock Holmes knew he was alive. Sherlock Holmes knew that message was intended for him, just for him. Right now, after three long, agonizing years, the consulting detective knew that he was alive. 

 It had been so lonely without him, so damn lonely. Yes, Mycroft had taken and sent Jim pictures of the man, or texts containing bits of dialogue whenever Sherlock said something interesting. But it wasn't the same. 

 This was life, again. Blood and life. Blood pumping through Sherlock's and Moriarty's veins with the knowledge and excitement that the two would once again play their infamous games.

 He couldn't stop smiling. Now, what sociopath was able to feel this much?

 The grin remained on his lips as he heard the familiar footsteps into his private home and Moriarty didn't even flinch. The small, yet firm sound from the dark grey Gucci shoes, the sound of the tip of the umbrella scraping against his marble floors (he would have to have a word about that, these floors had just been redone for crying out loud), the lazy yet posh posture...

 "Mycroft  _Holmes_..." Moriarty practically giggled, unable to contain his excitement, "What do you think of my little... welcome back gift for Sherlock?" His eyes motioned to the video that was eerily still playing on the screen. "Tell me how much he loved it..." Moriarty's eyes were alight with dangerous desire, "Oh, I  _know_  he did... tell me..." 

 "A bit dramatic. Even for you." Mycroft sneered. He walked into the room cautiously, taking a moment to observe his surroundings. Each wall was covered in what appeared to be fresh paint. The room was eerily pristine- to the point of being uninviting. "But..." Mycroft began "I expected nothing less." He looked over at the man believed to be the single largest terror in the nation. The delusional delight in Moriarty's eyes send a small tingle of terror down Mycroft's spine. "Sherlock remains largely unimpressed." He helped himself to an empty seat. "Much unlike you, as you appear to be quite fascinated with yourself." he gestured toward the screen. "So, James Moriarty.... indulge me. What do you hope to accomplish this time?"

Moriarty let out a screech of a laugh, a sound that had been buried away in the depths of his isolated soul and had just been excavated. He almost, almost, let it overwhelm him before the noise disappeared as soon as it had escaped him. 

 "My my my,  _Myc_..." Moriarty smirked lazily at the nickname, his voice resonating with a playful sing-song tone, "I can't tell you  _everything_... Where's the fun in that?" He narrowed his eyes playfully into two small lines and pursed his lips, as if his mouth contained a secret that only the two of them knew. He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, alright, if you  _must_  know..." Moriarty closed his eyes and let the sound of his own voice behind him cause him to sigh in happy relief. 

  "I plan to finish what I started..." Moriarty let out small bursts of laughter between his words, "The first part of my  _master_  plan is complete," he motioned grandly to the television screen, hands wide with purpose, his face wild with a manic, theatrical expression, "all I have to do is watch the flames dance around them." 

 "You're so thrilled. It's very... human." Mycroft observed, watching Moriarty ooze excitement out of every pore. With an eyebrow raised he continued "Pathetic, really." Reaching in front of him, he picked up a book off the table. "And what will you do once you've 'accomplished' this task? Perhaps you'll retire? Or start a business? Drive a cab? Become a headmaster? What will you do without Sherlock Holmes? I don't think you'll last without him. And don't forget how this works. He's so desperate to outwit you. I'm beginning to think that perhaps we have already seen the very best that you have to offer. If so, well..." Mycroft paused, looking up from the book he'd merely feigned interest in. "It won't be long before you're bested. That will be the end of you and your network and your legacy." he said. A tight lipped smile spread across his face.

Moriarty stared at the man in cold, quiet shock. The calm before the storm. "You don't know!" His eyes went wide with malice, his clenched fists slamming against the table, " _You_  don't know... you have absolutely no idea what I'm capable of..." Jim stood suddenly, circling around the table towards Mycroft's seat and he didn't hesitate to grab Mycroft's jaw, their faces mere inches away from the other's, the book that was in Mycroft's hands slipping out of his hands and back onto the table.

 "If you think I'm finished... if you think your dear little brother has the slightest chance against me, you are sadly mistaken..." He tightened his grip, causing Mycroft's head to fall slightly backward, "I don't think you remember who you're speaking to... shall I remind you?" 

 There was a second, a slight second that Moriarty played with the idea of snapping the man's neck and it shone in his black, cold eyes. Moriarty merely stared into Mycroft's eyes, panting furiously while the remnants of his fury washed over him. And then, it was gone. Moriarty let out a howl of laughter, promptly let the man go and returned to his seat, still shaking in a fit of giggles.

 "Oh dear, I lost myself for a moment, didn't I?" Moriarty grabbed the book, Paradise Lost, with as much force as he could muster. "My mistake. I won't do that again." He leafed through the book, in much the same way Mycroft did, in a mocking, serious way but smiled gleefully when he stumbled upon a line that brought him immeasurable joy. "Oh ho ho... this is a wonderful piece of literature, isn't it, Myc?" He let his fingers wander over the words, brushing his fingers tenderly over the page. “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..." 

 Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Moriarty. He had dealt with his fair share of psychotic individuals in his line of work. But none like Jim. None so unhinged, so unpredictable. So desperate. For what, he wasn't sure. But he knew Jim needed something. Perhaps someone, even. Or maybe, just maybe, he didn't need anyone at all, but simply thrived on terror. Unable to determine exactly what Moriarty was playing after, Mycroft felt a wide range of emotions fuelling his tight jawed glare at Moriarty. The nerve of that man, after all Mycroft had done for him. But now wasn't the time to reveal anything to Moriarty. No, he would be handled soon enough. Instead, Mycroft carefully adjusted his tie back to its original position. He spoke calmly, his voice low and never betraying him. "What a regrettable display of emotion. Clearly, you've lost control." He stood, grabbing his umbrella.  "I wish I could say I'm looking forward to our next meeting, but that would suggest I intend to see you again." Walking swiftly to the door he turned to Moriarty, adding "Here's to your timely end. Again."

**Author's Note:**

> lisagemeni and I will be alternating chapters.  
> Chapter two can be found on her AO3.


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